Missed Connection: Blood and Chrome
by Last Harlequin
Summary: The year is 2054, The united states exists in name only and corporations are the power behind the throne, a veteran in forced retirement gets a wrong number. The missed connection reminds him of who he was. A Crossover with Cyberpunk 2020 Warning: Violence, cyberpsychosis. More chapters as I feel like writing them.


A/N: This is something that's been bouncing around my brain for a few months, decided to put it to text. Don't know if I'm going to do more. Might turn it into a real story, not sure. Enjoy it for what it is, constructive criticism always welcomed.

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The name is no accident. Night city, perpetual grim, grey city. It is raining, the fat droplets hit the window panes and they jutter just slightly with the determined patter that makes them impossible to ignore. The window looks in on a small apartment, there is a bucket in the corner to catch the leak, the bucket has to be treated, the rain sizzles when it hits the 'wood' floors. He sits in a chair by the wall watching the television, beside the phone that he wonders why he bothers paying for, it never rings. The room is sparse, a small throw rug, a couch that's never had anybody in it but him. He sits by the wall because the stamped metal chair can more easily support his weight. He lives on the third floor, the upstairs neighbor is quiet. Not that it matters. The room is dark but for the television, an old style gaming console resting next to it on the small table, unused, the controller is broken.

He stands up, his legs respond crisply, lifting his bulk easily as though he weighed nothing. Military issue. Just like his hands, his arms, his head, his heart. A brain in a box. That's how he felt most times. He didn't think about it. It was easier to not think about it. There's a lot of things it was easier to not do. Easier to not quit, just keep this job, mopping floors in a small business, it paid rent, barely, it covered maintenance, barely. A job that was just barely good enough, for a person that was just barely there, easier not to worry about it. He takes two steps toward the table, and the unopened bill laying next to the unopened magazine. The sound freezes him, jars him. The ring. The silence hangs for an instant, two, three, five. He realizes his 'ware turned itself on. He shuts them down with a thought and the phone rings again in the next beat. He steps over and considers it as it rings again before he lifts the receiver, carefully, so as not to crush it. He holds it up. He lifts it to his ear, he can hear the quiet static of a live line, the sound of current in the wires from this close. He doesn't need to breath, there is nothing but the sound of lifting the handle to signal he's even there. There, a small sound, an intake of breath, someone is about to speak. The words come out in a sociopathically pleasant tone of voice, like a waiter who you know secretly wants to piss in your soup.

"Hi! It's… Tim… from the bakery. The cookies you ordered should be delivered by now, just confirming your address as…"

Wrong Number. But he listened all the same, maybe they'd leave a return number and he'd have an excuse to call back. The message was… strange, the cadence was wrong. He reviewed what he'd heard, playing the message back in his brain with the perfect recall of having a machine for an ear. There was information here, something wrong, something amiss.

"... Two four-ty… Six, baker's street. We left the package under the mat! Have a nice day!"

The voice at the other end hangs up. He listens to the silence on the other end and hangs up as the dial tone plays softly. He stands staring at the phone. It had been awhile since something tickled his brain like this. He walked to get dressed. Some would question why someone without flesh bothers with clothes, but those people don't understand the value of being comfortable.

Jeans, T-shirt, Varsity Jacket, treated clothing to resist the weather in the city. He paused and thought about it before putting on his boots. Better than dealing with corroded feet. He grabbed a hat as well, for much the same reason. He hit the pavement.

The press of people was always impressive, it never ended. A riot of color, and noise, everyone trying to stand out in the crowd made a technicolor sea of empty faces. It was late, he knew that much by the fact nobody had brushed him, Not having a human face often did that. He made people nervous, people made him feel disconnected. He was aware, he could see each face, each person clearly, sharply. His eyes were that good, his ears could pick apart the scene grab a single sound over the din, but he didn't want to. The sea was easier to deal with. Just proximity. The doctors told him he might feel disconnection, joke's on them. He felt that when he had blood. Now he felt aloof, afloat, and it wasn't just because of his greater than average height. When you hit a certain level of Chrome, when you replace enough of yourself, you stop feeling quite like people. You can see more than them, he had senses that humans couldn't have, he had a gyroscope in his brain, a chemical analyzer in his nose. He could see heat, hear things no flesh ear could hope to. He was faster, stronger, more precise. And walking through the sea, he felt the shark, the smaller fishes avoided him on instinct, there were no words, hardly even a glance. He didn't mind. He didn't like his voice, synthesized, early model, it sounded harsh, grating even to him. It was just easier not to talk.

He arrived at the address two hundred and forty-six baker's street. Just at the edge of The Zone. He walked up to the abandoned building and noticed small pile of refuse with a mat on top of it. He walked over and contemplated it a moment in the rain before crouching down and rummaging through the pile. Pulling out a small brown cardboard box with a letter taped to the front. The package weighed little, the contents shifted just a little as he tucked it under his arm and walked to a sheltered eave. He opened the box with a finger, parting the tape without trouble. He wasn't sure what he expected to find. What he didn't expect was a mask. He took it out, facing the wall and inspected it. A rubber mask. Red, white, yellow a cock's comb. He held it a few moments before putting it in his pocket. The box was otherwise empty, the letter on the front was unmarked, he opened it. In for a penny, if you're going to steal mail might as well go the whole nine.

Eight Eighty Trabban Rd. The target is Mikeal Vassili, leave target at point F - 32, inside the dumpster, Failure will not be tolerated, we'll be watching to assess your performance. There was a picture, and a building layout.

He turned the paper over in his hands. He stared hard at it, He'd already taken an image of it, it was stored, flawless in his memory for now. But the paper itself represented something. Intellectually he knew he should call the police, turn this in, submit the recording. Something though stopped him. He couldn't quite put a finger on it as he walked through the street the paper slowly dissolving in the acid rain, to nothing but pulp and ink. As he headed to the address, intent on a job like he hadn't been since he's been let go.

He felt purpose. He didn't have a heart to pound, he didn't have ears that could ring anymore. He couldn't sweat, couldn't tremble. Were he able, they would all be happening. He remembered, in the visceral way a certain smell can take you back to a long-left place, the way a certain sound can echo in the mind. The feeling swelled slowly in his cold body.

The building was run down, not unlike his own apartment. Donned the mask as he walked in. It was familiar like a helmet despite its thinness, it took him back to an older place. The stairs creaked, the rugs in the hall were damp. There was nobody at the front desk, but there were men in the entrance. They wore clothes nicer than the building they were in. He could see the weapons hidden in their clothes, just small outlines as they shifted, a flash of handle.

"You're not from here, who are you?" One of the faces asked. His white suit immaculate despite the weather.

By way of answer he held up the small glossy photo of Mikeal Vassili, it was easier than answering. In the next instant everything slowed down. The other man's hand had started heading for the concealed butt of a pistol. He was in motion before he even realized why. Hand to wrist, snapped wrist, a single strike to the man's soft face, he felt bone shatter, an expensive cyber-optic crumple, he heard the heartbeat go wild, erratic. He was already moving. The other man had started to respond. A single kick laid him out to the ground, a follow up punch split his skull like a ripe melon. He was heading up the stairs in a flash, a blur. There were fourteen people in the building. Including, eventually someone who matched the photo. It was over too soon, but it felt like a subjective eternity.

The quiet thud of the dumpster lid closing as he pulled off the stained mask, just a fine aerosol spray from a quick swing with a chair leg. He tucked it into his pocket and started walking back home, the rain slowly erasing the evidence of what he'd done. The memory fading already to a glossy image in the album of what was. But he felt different. Like this was something he'd missed. The history of violence, the feeling of life and death. The noise, the fury. He'd thought himself incapable, but he finally felt like he was alive.

Best wrong number ever.

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Cyberpunk 2020 is my favorite. Jacket fits a little too well into the setting.


End file.
